


Bad Idea

by Nontalent



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: M/M, Wow, cant believe i actually wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:01:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nontalent/pseuds/Nontalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why’re you up here? Twelfth floor is a bit far from district two’s territory isn’t it?” Cato answers by knitting his eyebrows together like he’s trying to find some reason why he shouldn’t be truthful. To coax him, Peeta offers, “personally, I can’t sleep.”</p><p>Late night wanderings bring two tributes together, forcing them to interact and face up to how they really feel about the games and eachother</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Idea

“Peeta. Peeta Mellark.”  
“I know who you are.”  
It’s dark in the enormous hallway of the tributes training center. The night lights from the city outside cast gaudy shadows across two boys’ faces, one tired and wary, the other hardened and serious.  
“Are you going to shake my hand?” Peeta says after a moment of silence. He’s been standing there with his arm outstretched for what couldn’t have been any less than a minute, waiting for the other to return the greeting.  
“Don’t patronize me,” comes Cato’s cutting voice, too loud in the sleepy building. His words echo off the walls around them and Peeta’s eyes shift as if he’s trying to watch them progress down the hall. He can tell its no use attempting formalities with Cato, so he retracts his hand and instead uses it to mindlessly rub at the back of his neck. ‘Really shouldn’t have gotten out of bed,’ he thinks, ‘shouldn’t have wondered around.’  
It’s silent for another long stretch of time. The boys are face to face and a few feet apart, sizing each other up. Peeta’s shoulders are slouched slightly and he’s wearing plain gray pajama bottoms, the only article of clothing he insisted on keeping with him after leaving district 12, his bitter sweet reminder of home. He’s also has on a thin white t shirt that makes the muscles on his arms and chest look more intimidating than they had in his training suit. His eyes have dark circles below them, a testimony to how often he’s been taking midnight strolls instead of sleeping these past few days, but, even so, the blue of his irises cuts through the dark, looking bright and alert if not somewhat concerned while they search Cato’s still form.   
Cato is the exact opposite of Peeta. He’s many inches taller and stands with perfect posture, shoulders squared and feet apart like he’s ready for a fight. He’s wearing silky black pajamas (a matching top and bottom) and an equally dark robe that looks too soft compared to his rigidity. His eyes are narrowed, mistrustful, and cold as ice. Or at least that’s how they seem on the surface. Peeta catches, though, a glimmer of fear beneath them, the type you see in the eyes of a child whose waiting for their next beating. He’s completely on guard.  
“Why’re you up here? Twelfth floor is a bit far from district two’s territory isn’t it?” Cato answers by knitting his eyebrows together like he’s trying to find some reason why he shouldn’t be truthful. To coax him, Peeta offers, “personally, I can’t sleep.”  
“I’m going to kill you.” It’s not a response to the conversation, nor is it a threat. Really, there’s no obvious emotion in Cato’s voice when he says it. It’s just a fact.  
“Yeah, that’s probably why I can’t sleep,” Peeta sighs, only half joking.  
“Don’t make fun of me.” The taller boy’s growls defensively.  
Peeta puts his hands up submissively before responding, “I wasn’t.” There’s another long pause before Peeta asks, “do you want to kill me?” He says it on an impulse, curious as to whether or not the district one and two kids really are as robotically homicidal as the world would have you believe.   
“Yes.” The answer comes quickly, too quickly.  
“Oh,” Peeta says, suddenly grateful for his gift of smooth talking. It hadn’t helped much back at home, but here in the city it seemed as though charm can go a long way. So he continues, “gotta make your district proud right? I’ve heard you guys are really into that kinda thing. Good for you.” Cato looks surprised at the lack of sarcasm in the other boy’s tone, but nods affirmative nevertheless. “Wanna go in?” Peeta asks on an afterthought, pointing at a door to their left that they both know leads to the room they’ve been training in daily.   
“It’s after hours, it’ll be locked,” Cato responds, giving Peeta a look that screams ‘are you stupid?’  
“District Twelve teaches you a lot,” is all Peeta says, rising to the challenge. He approaches the door and looks at the little box next to it filled with strange buttons and tiny levers. He’d seen one like this before on the back of one of the house-like city vehicles that came into his town every year to choose tributes when he was a kid. He and friends had picked the lock using what little knowledge they’d had back then of technology, but had refrained from going in and instead fled the minute the little voice on the speaker said ‘open’. It doesn’t take him very long to break in this time either, even without the help of his schoolyard companions. He can feel Cato’s eyes on his back, watching him work, and smiles up at him when the door slides open.   
Cato’s eyes go wide as he asks, “how did you do that?” but Peeta just winks in return.  
“C’mon, lets do something. It’s not like I’m gunna get back to sleep tonight anyway.” Peeta says, encouraging Cato into the large room with a beckoning hand.  
“You want to spar?” Cato says, cautiously looking at the weapons hung all around them on the walls.  
“Nah, too tired. You paint?” Peeta asks good-naturedly. He pushing every ounce of friendliness he can into his words, gestures, even the way he walks, trying to turn up his charisma as far as it’ll go in hopes that it’ll save him from having to fight the other boy. His last comment, however, is risky. He only realizes how weak it makes him seem after he’s said it, so he stands still, half facing the other boy, waiting for a response. It takes a minute or two, but eventually Cato’s snorts and the sarcastic, overly-confident sneer he always wears during the day appears.  
“Seriously?”  
“Yeah seriously, c’mon.”  
He sits down at his usual station, taking out the many naturally made paints he created only six or seven hours ago. He begins to work, quickly rendering the skin on the back of his left hand to resemble one of the fake trees in the room, hoping that, if he does it right, it’ll negate the weakness he’d shown earlier. Cato watches him work again, this time by sitting across from his with his muscular arms folded tightly across his chest in a way that Peeta is sure Cato knows looks intimidating.  
“I don’t want to kill you, you know,” Cato says eventually, looking up with a surprised face at Peeta. “I just have to.” The words seem as much a revelation to him as they are to the shorter boy, and he coughs quietly in embarrassment.   
“That’s okay, I get it.”  
“…You do?”  
“Well,” Peeta sighs, twirling his brush slowly, “no I guess not. I mean, our districts are totally different. I just… When I got picked, my mother said there might finally be a winner from Twelve, only she was talking about Katniss, not me. Greatness isn’t something that’s ever been expected from me, but you’ve probably had that on you since day one. The stress level is probably about the same, being expected to be first or dead last.” He shrugs. “I need to prove them wrong, you need to prove them right.”  
Cato’s face suddenly looks like he’s in pain. He slams his hands down flat onto the table, letting the sound fill the silence as he stares unblinkingly at Peeta’s painted hand. His body slumps after a moment, head drooping like his neck can’t hold its weight anymore. “You’re strong though,” he says, not looking at Peeta’s face, “stronger than a lot of the idiots here.”  
“Not stronger than Katniss,” Peeta responds cautiously. Cato shrugs. “Not stronger then One and Two’s kids too,” he says, this time making a point to catch the other’s eyes. The corners of Cato’s mouth turn down and he nods slowly in agreement.  
“Yeah, probably not,” he responds thoughtfully, “but you’re definitely not the worst in the group. You’ll die fighting.” The last sentence is out before he really has time to think it through, and when the reality hits that he’s talking about the boy across from him actually dying it’s more shocking than it should be, especially considering how desensitized he’s supposed to be after years of working for this moment. “You would’ve done good in District Two,” He quickly says, for some reason trying to patch up his mistake, “you’d definitely win with a bit of training.”  
Peeta gives Cato a confused look before noticing that the taller boy is turning a slight shade of pink and then laughs. He laughs like he hasn’t laughed in days, or years even. He honestly can’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed with another human being, and so, strange as it is, laughing with the boy who is probably going to kill him in a week’s time, he lets the sound roll out of him until he’s breathless and has tears in the corners of his eyes. Cato turns a deeper shade of red with each passing second, but by the time Peeta’s quieted down he’s smiling too.  
“Thanks buddy,” Peeta says, leaning over to give Cato a pat on the shoulder, “it’s really nice knowing you’re on my side.” He reaches up to wipe his face, still chuckling, but is stopped by a strong hand on his forearm.  
“I’ll help you. For as long as I can, I’ll help you.” Cato says, looking up at Peeta earnestly. His face finally looks like one that might actually belong to him – the stereotypical fierceness in his features replaced by a hopeful seriousness.  
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Cato,” the shorter boy says softly, his voice sad. “When it comes down to it, it’ll probably be you and Katniss and you know I’ve gotta keep her safe. I need to make sure she goes home, so it’s really no use helping me.”  
“Right.” Cato replies curtly. He lets go of Peeta’s arm with a jerk. Then he groans and buries face into one of his hands, “I wish we didn’t have to do this.”  
Peeta thinks for a moment before deliberately saying, “maybe we don’t.” When the taller boy looks up questioningly he keeps going, “We could run away?” Cato’s face turns a neon shade of scarlet at that comment which in turn causes Peeta to go a bright pink before hurriedly saying, “I mean everyone! Everyone could run away!”  
“R – right,” the other boy laughs shakily, “we’d all just get up and leave.”  
“I guess not.” They chuckle darkly, both thinking of the consequences. “It’s too bad though,” Peeta says, “it’s gunna be hard having to go out there, especially now that we’re friends. It’s just gunna make it that much worse.”  
“Are we friends?” Cato asks quickly, his face breaking out into a tentative smile.  
“Yeah, I’d say so,” Peeta says, his cheeks flaring up in a vivid blush. They smile at each other awkwardly for a few seconds before the shorter boy clears his throat. “This is such a bad idea.”  
“Yeah,” Cato agrees, his grin fading.  
“Well, maybe if we find an opportunity or something while we’re out there, we can still try to run away,” Peeta sighs, offering up one last smile.  
“It’s a deal,” Cato says, then he stands and looks at Peeta’s hand, “cool camouflage.”  
“Oh thanks.”  
“Wanna head back?”  
“Yeah, we probably should.”  
The two boys walk back into the dark hallway and stand side by side in front of the glass wall facing the city below. The sun has already begun to rise, igniting the sky with fiery colors and reflecting off the many metal and glass surfaces making up the landscape below.  
“I’m that way,” Peeta says after a very long pause, “you?”  
“Other direction.”  
“Alright, well I guess I’ll see you in a few hours.”  
“Yeah, see you.”  
The shorter boy begins to walk away, moving towards the stairs that he knows will take him to his bedroom before he hears, “wait, Peeta!” and is jerked back around by a strong hand on his shoulder. Cato’s face is too close, his eyes shining and face golden and pink in the early morning glow. Without hesitation Cato leans down, pressing their lips together with so much urgency and need that Peeta feels drunk in it. The smaller boy instinctually opens his mouth, letting the other push his tongue past swollen lips to explore the warmth there, his hands coming up to hold Peeta on either side of his face so as to allow better access in. It’s wonderful, so blissfully wonderful that when Cato finally pulls back Peeta whines softly, craving to be close again.  
“Fuck, sorry.” Cato pants. His hands smoothly glide down Peeta’s neck to his shoulders and eventually to his hands so that he’s holding both of them in his, uncaring of how much paint is getting on the one that grasps the shorter boy’s masterpiece. “Sorry,” he says one more time before letting go completely and whirling around.  
“No Cato, wait!” It’s Peeta’s turn to cry out, but he’s too late. Cato sprints down the hall, leaving the other boy teary-eyed and weak-kneed behind him. 

That night, Cato rubs some of the paint still left on his skin onto a small note card, then folds it up and tucks it into the inside pocket of the jacket he knows he’ll be wearing during the games. ‘Keep him safe,’ is the only thought in his head, a new purpose that replaces those previously given to him, ‘just keep him safe.’

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a joke fic and then it got all serious so yeah  
> i actually have real feels about this pairing now  
> Fuck.
> 
> anyway, feedback would be nice, thanks for reading!


End file.
